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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29002008">Emerge</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/josephineleonides/pseuds/josephineleonides'>josephineleonides</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Magnus Archives (Podcast)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Catharsis, Haircuts, He/Him Pronouns For Nonbinary Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Hurt No Comfort, Memories, Trans Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 11:26:45</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,283</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29002008</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/josephineleonides/pseuds/josephineleonides</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>"But right now, hunched over the dirty old sink in the institute toilets, he can do nothing about those other things. What he can do is cut his hair."</p>
<p>Jon cathartically cutting off his long hair, set in season four.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Georgie Barker/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist &amp; Alice "Daisy" Tonner, Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist &amp; Tim Stoker, Sasha James &amp; Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist &amp; Tim Stoker</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>64</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Emerge</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>CWs:<br/>-Misgendering<br/>-Jon reflects upon memories from his life, and since he's been through a lot of trauma, this could come across as flashbacks<br/>-Canon typical anxieties, fear of being watched, and fear of losing humanity (all pretty brief)</p>
<p>if there's anything I've missed, please let me know</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>He is sick of his hair.</p>
<p>He is, of course, sick of quite a few other things too. Other, more dangerous, more world altering things. Great, important things that loom over him, watch him, bite at his ankles and threaten to pull the rug out from under him any second now. And, of course, another thing-which he quite pointedly is not thinking about. </p>
<p>But right now, hunched over the dirty old sink in the institute toilets, he can do nothing about those other things. He can't fight them, he apparently can't See them (at least not when he wants to), and he can't save-anyone. What he can do is cut his hair. </p>
<p>And so he does. Steeling himself with a deep breath, that quivers slightly (be it from apprehension of this, the base level anxiety he can never quite shake these days, or the constant weight of eyes at the back of his neck, he does not know), he separates out a piece in front of his eyes, and he cuts. </p>
<p>~</p>
<p>"No, I won't hear of it." </p>
<p>"But grandma-" </p>
<p>"No. A girl ought to have long, pretty hair. It's proper. I'm not hearing any more about it." </p>
<p>~</p>
<p>The first thick curl flutters down in front of him, and he watches it blankly in the mirror. It falls slowly, despite how suffocatingly heavy it felt on his head, and lands gently in the sink. </p>
<p>He turns his attention back to the mirror, where he finds he looks just the same. He has a lot of hair, always has, and it's wiry enough that a segment small enough for scissors to get through has little aesthetic effect overall. And so he continues. </p>
<p>~</p>
<p>"You ready?" </p>
<p>"Yes, Georgie, please get it over with." </p>
<p>"Alright, alright, calm down Sims-just looked a little scrunchy" </p>
<p>"Scrunchy?!" </p>
<p>"Apprehensive. Nervous. Not ready." </p>
<p>"Well, I can assure you I am, so if you would just get on with it-" </p>
<p>"Alright!" </p>
<p>-</p>
<p>"How do you feel?" </p>
<p>"I don't know. I feel the same I always have. Except I sort of... Look it?" </p>
<p>"Oh, love" </p>
<p>"Yeah. Thanks, Georgie" </p>
<p>"Any time" </p>
<p>-</p>
<p>"Sorry, what haircut is that?" </p>
<p>"Look, I don't know what it's called, but she just sort of used to-" </p>
<p>"Look love, if you want your hair cut, I don't think you want a barber. Try a hairdressers, alright?"</p>
<p>"...Yes. Alright. Thank you." </p>
<p>~</p>
<p>He pushes away that last memory with another decisive few hacks, taking out a chunk that he supposes could now be considered bangs. They fall faster now, already nearly covering the tiny washbasin in the mens. He presses on. </p>
<p>~</p>
<p>"Morning Jon! Take the tube today, or were you dragged through a bush backwards?" </p>
<p>"Do shut up, Tim. It's sweet!" </p>
<p>"What? What's sweet? What on earth are you-" </p>
<p>"<em>Tim</em> here is just being stupid. Nothing new there. I wouldn't worry." </p>
<p>"<em>Sasha</em>. How could you betray me like this. I hope you know that I am wounded, hurt, and may never recover from this -" </p>
<p>"Oh stop it, you dramatic man." </p>
<p>"I still don't see what anything has to do with my being dragged through a bush"</p>
<p>"It's just... When you stay up all night researching, which I'm assuming you did last night you silly thing, your hair gets a little... Wild." </p>
<p>"Wild?!" </p>
<p>"Think birds nest. Mop. Struck by lightning" </p>
<p>"Tim, shut <em>up-</em>" </p>
<p>~</p>
<p>When he next checks his progress in the mirror, he's not terribly surprised at the tears rolling down his now much more visible face. </p>
<p>~</p>
<p>"Jon, I brought you some tea!" </p>
<p>"Ah, yes, thank you Martin.</p>
<p>...Was there anything else?" </p>
<p>"Oh! No. It's just that, um, you've been a little stressed this morning-which, I mean, is fair, and I'm not trying to imply anything, it's just that, well -" </p>
<p>"Do spit it out, Martin." </p>
<p>"Uh, yes, well, you sort of run your hands through your hair when you're stressed? And so, well, I thought you might want this?" </p>
<p>"A hair band." </p>
<p>"Yes. Well. I mean, you don't have to, it's just that I thought it might make it easier if you-" </p>
<p>"Thank you, Martin, that will be all." </p>
<p>"Oh! Great! I'm so glad that you-right, ok, leaving, bye Jon, thank you!" </p>
<p>~</p>
<p>He pauses, no longer able to see the movements of his own hands through the thick tears obscuring his vision, to dab harshly at his eyes before continuing with perhaps slightly more vigour than necessary. </p>
<p>~</p>
<p>"Will you stop that." </p>
<p>"What on earth could I possibly be doing-" </p>
<p>"Huffing! Blowing at your stupid fucking hair. Pin it back, or shut. Up." </p>
<p>"Well, I'm sorry that my hair is such an inconvenience to you, Tim, but I'm actually focusing quite hard on planning to <em>save the world</em>, so I apologise if my mind is elsewhere" </p>
<p>"Oh my god, Jon, would you stop blowing absolutely everything out of proportion. Just pin your fucking hair back." </p>
<p>"I'm awfully sorry to disappoint you, but I don't actually have anything on me, so I'm afraid you'll have to suffer through my breathing for a bit longer." </p>
<p>"Oh, for the love of-here, let me" </p>
<p>"... Oh. Uh, thanks, Tim, uh-" </p>
<p>"God Jon, don't try and show me any gratitude, you might pull something" </p>
<p>"Right. Ok." </p>
<p>~</p>
<p>Jon is forced to stop, now, the sobs he can no longer hold back making his hand shake too much to close the scissors properly. He steps back, staring at the half of his face now exposed to the dim, shitty lighting emanating from the single ancient bulb hanging above his head. He looks tired, he thinks, in every sense of the word. Scarred, and battered, and exhausted. The lighting exaggerates the effect of the bags under his eyes, shines on the wet tear tracks, and catches on the small, circular scars that litter his cheek and jaw. </p>
<p>But for a moment, as he first catches his own eye, he doesn't care. Because he looks different. Gone is the hair that's been grabbed, and pulled, and caressed, and cared for, and loathed, and rumpled, and tangled. Gone. He carries on. </p>
<p>~</p>
<p>"You've really got to do something about that hair, Jon." </p>
<p>"What?" </p>
<p>"Invest in a brush or something. It looks like you've been dragged through a bush-" </p>
<p>"Yes, thank you, Daisy, I get the idea." </p>
<p>"I could cut it for you, if you'd like?" </p>
<p>"Cut it?" </p>
<p>"Yeah. New look. Fresh out the buried and all that." </p>
<p>"Right. I suppose I'd never-I suppose I could, yes." </p>
<p>~</p>
<p>The second side of his hair goes much faster, as he perseveres through tears and doggedly returns his mind to the task at hand when it threatens to derail again. The sink is overflowing, now, thick black and silver locks pouring onto the floor, littering the tiles around him. Until, soon enough, all that's left is a choppy, uneven sort of pixie cut. He goes round again, pressing Daisy's scissors (of which he did not question the origin) as close to his skull as he can-not with any sort of style in mind except for as-little-hair-as-humanly--or, well, physically--possible. After a few more minutes of frustrated snipping, he steps back, staring once again at his face in the mirror. </p>
<p>Fanned out around him he can see piles of hair, and as his eyes track over them, he sees also the ghosts that they carry. The hands, caring and cruel and plastic. The words that twisted themselves in those curls, burrowed there, and whispered themselves in his ears again and again as the years passed by. Pink bows and paperclips and leant hairbands and molten wax and hospital soap and suffocating dirt. All of them, all of it, lay around him on the bathroom floor. Detached. </p>
<p>Gone. </p>
<p>He hears a soft knock on the door, which he recognises now to be Daisy.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>"Come in" </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>ta for reading!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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